


What if?

by Butterhawk



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Dancing, Drunkenness, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2008-06-15
Updated: 2008-07-07
Packaged: 2018-12-20 13:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11921772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterhawk/pseuds/Butterhawk
Summary: Le Chiffre is drunk and feel like swaying his hips.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own this character, Ian Fleming and MGM do, I make no money writing this, don't sue my skinny ass :(

Le Chiffre has never been a dancer, fact is, he still isn't. 

It has something to do with his hips and his feet, he can never relax enough not to look stiff and odd moving around on the dance floor, he even  once heard someone saying "It looks like he has something shoved up that petite ass of his." 

But today, tonight, was different. He was drunk and just a wee little bit silly. Or maybe even very, very silly. A sly smirk covers that little mouth of his, his hips are moving and soon his shoulders are too. 

Its slow at first, almost sensual.  
He has a glass of red wine in one hand and his tie in the other, he's shoes have been kicked off and he's moving barefoot to the conga. The conga of all songs! And he likes it, it makes him almost giggle with delight, makes things seem softer. 

How wonderful it is to not have to worry, even if it is for only a few minutes. Sometimes, when he is alone like this, he can imagine, he can say the words; What if?  What if his life had taken an other turn? What if he could leave it all, where would he go? What if he could clean up this mess?  
But he can't. He just knows it, like its fate. And one can't run from fate, right? 

The congo stops only to be replaced by something similar. Le Chiffre stops moving as well. Its like the room is suddenly brighter, like he suddenly sobered up. He glances around in the expensive hotel room, at the sweet-smelling flowers near the door, his inhaler lying close to the vase, full of benzedrine. He licks his lips, feeling like one of Pavlov's dogs and turns away. 

Fate. There it was again. He has a bad feeling about all this, about the poker-game. But he knows its his last chance to get back that large sum of money without complications. He knows he's running out of time. Yet he cannot stop but thinking; What if? He allows himself to search his mind for just a few precious seconds. If he gave up, if he turned himself in, what could he say to make them spare him? And by them he means the MI6, he is not yet so far gone that he believes they aren't coming, that Bond isn't coming. 

The sofa makes soft sounds when he sits down and lifts up his small delicate naked feet, when he puts down his wineglass and wriggles with his toes. Its all bullshit, its all make-believe. He's fucked and he knows it. _Think you idiot, think! How will you use this to your advantage?_ He's almost shaking when he's reaching for his inhalor, exhales and inhales deeply when the mouth-piece is between his lips. He holds his breath, closes his eyes and feels it swirling down, doing its sweet job, and just like that he's at ease. He knows what to do. 

Maybe one can change fate after all?


	2. What if? 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More brooding

Still, he could not help but wonder, while he was lying flat on his back, eyes fixed upon a small crack in the ceiling, < em> What would they do if I didn't show up at the appointed time? Call him, probably, storm his hotel-room, guns blazing! He gave a slight chuckle, that would be a sight indeed.

He sighed and sat up, his feet touching the thick silky rug, feeling somewhat unreal. When he turned the lights on it didn't look as warm as he wanted, instead it filled the room with a cold eerie glow, making him sigh once again.

So it was going to be one of those days instead.

It seemed he had lots of those lately and maybe it was his own fault, but then again, maybe it wasn't? He was getting sick of his own situation, the life he was living. Lately, it seemed it wasn't his life at all, like all he did was just following the flow, doing the will of others.

When did that happen?

At first he had thought that he could go his own way, that the cash-flow would be never-ending, but somewhere along the way he became a puppet, just like everyone else, and not the master. He wanted out.

He slid out of his silk boxers, letting them pool around his ankles before stepping out of them and into the shower. He was one of them who didn't like the water to be boiling hot, didn't like the water to hammer down his back, but then again, he didn't like it cold either and turned the heat up somewhat.

Out. Was that ever possible anymore?

One night earlier, high on benzedrine and alcohol, he had figured out a plan, or at least that's what he thought. Sober and fully awake, the idea didn't seem that.. grand anymore. And the clock was ticking. He felt his vision swirl and he had to reach for the wall just to gain some balance. 

He had nowhere to go, no one to turn to and realization was filling him with dread, threatened to choke him. He stared at his feet, watching a drop of blood fall from his face. When did everything get so hard?

With a towel around his slender hips he first stalked the room, turning one way, then the other, his expensive double-breasted suite was hanging inside the closet, waiting for him. He would feel better when he put it on, like it was his armour, he knew this but he kept stalling.

A knock on the door felt like a fist in his stomach and he touched his forehead with his fingertips, breathing hard.

"One second please. I'm indecent.."  
"Roomservice."  
"Oh.." Funny, he didn't remember ordering anything. He looked around for some kind of weapon, having his gun in his briefcase under his bed.  
 _Come now, its a bit of a cliché don't you think? People only dress up like the room service in movies, bad movies. Open the door._

And so he did. 

The gun against his chest made him laugh, one of them short -You-got-to-be-kidding-me ones. He licked his lips, shook his head, making the wet hair dance on his head.

"Mr Bond. I would raise my hands in sweet surrender, but then again.." He glanced down towards his bath-towel. 

Bond quirked an eyebrow.  
"So why don't you?.."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own this character, Ian Fleming and MGM do, I make no money writing this, don't sue my skinny ass :( And english still isn't my native tongue.


End file.
